Restoration
by Quatre-sama
Summary: An account of Duke Roger's resurrection, as seen through the eyes of Delia of Eldorne. Contains slashy material.


**A/N:** This was written as part of a Dancing Dove fanfiction challenge.  As a member of the Sick F--- Faction, I opted to write for the SFF Threesome portion of the Challenge. ^_^ Consider yourself warned. (tee-hee)  Special thanks goes to Seereth for making me revel in these characters.  New perspectives are always a good thing.

~Restoration~ 

Delia wrings her hands as she watches the young sorcerer prepare himself.  He sets candles around the tomb, drawing symbols in the air above the slab of marble that separates them from the duke.  Thom's violet eyes flash as he works, showing Delia an excitement—no, a _fervor_—which she has never seen in him before.  He has always seemed cold.  Alone.  Detached.  Never before as she seen such devotion in his face.

"How long will this take you?" Alex asks.  His voice is not quite as cold as Delia has heard from him lately.  She knows that Alex had loved Roger as she had, and understands why he might speak less harshly to the mage who will remedy it all.  But his desire for the return of the duke does not explain to Delia the way his eyes soften, or his hand reaches for the younger man.

"Only a few minutes more," Thom says, pulling black robes out of a satchel, along with a very large book and a silver goblet.  "Is there a purifying bath down here, or a room where I can change?"

Alex points to a door across the room, in the Royal Chapel.  The only service this chapel is used for is the funerals of the royal family, but the purifying bath is crucial to any priest or priestess offering a funeral mass.  Delia wonders idly if Thom intends to purify himself, or if that action is even necessary for their heretical deed.  

Thom scurries off, leaving Delia and Alex standing together by the tomb.  They are lovers.  Not of each other, but of the dead duke.  Never before have their goals meshed so well, and Delia feels more nervous about his presence now than ever she did when Roger was alive.  To whom will Roger extend his arms after he takes his first breaths?  To whom will he be grateful?  With whom will he spend the rest of his existence?

Alex coughs awkwardly, clearly as uncomfortable with her as she is with him.  "Excellent job," he says, nodding toward the door to the bathing room.  "Your method of persuading him to do this task was nothing short of brilliant."  His words are kind, but his tone and manner are indifferent.

She waves her hand prettily.  "It was nothing," she replies.  "Sorcerers are all alike: cajole them or flatter them to win their favor, challenge their ability to get things accomplished."

Alex grins, and an unsettling feeling washes over Delia.  

"Women are very much the same, in my experience," he says, meeting her eyes squarely.  "What, Lady Delia, do you want from Roger's return?"  He nears her, circling the way a cat might approach an enemy—or a victim.

Delia swallows thickly.  "The same thing as you, of course."

Alex laughs coarsely, but says no more.  Thom has returned, refreshed and wearing the black robe reserved for only the most powerful mages.

"Neither of you are gifted, correct?" he asks, taking the small goblet in his hand.

They nod their affirmative.

"Good."  Without warning, Thom grabs Delia's hand roughly, holding it over the cup, and slices her palm open with an ornate dagger.  Delia gasps and cries out as he squeezes more blood from her hand and into the goblet.

"The past," Thom says, handing the chalice aloft.  He then carefully wraps Delia's hand in a handkerchief.  "Forgive me, Lady."

Tears blur her vision, but she blinks them away.  Her gaze is intent upon the young wizard as he steps over to Alex.

He takes Alex's hand in his and pauses, staring into the taller man's eyes.  He kisses the palm of Alex's hand slowly, his eyes never moving, then swiftly cuts the flesh.  Blood streams into the silver cup.  "The present," he whispers, and lifts the goblet.  

Delia feels a jolt of shock as she studies them, then the incomparable sense of having been swindled.  Her charm has obviously _not_ been needed in gaining Thom's assistance in this task.   Her challenges against his abilities have not played a significant part.  Quite clearly, Alex has been able to convince Thom on his own; her blood was needed, so they had given her reason to believe that she was in control of the whole ordeal.

_I would have given it freely, no matter,_ she thinks bitterly.  Despite her anger at their lack of trust, part of Delia rejoices.  Alex has gone to another man's bed: Roger will most certainly choose to stay with her.

Thom moves to stand over Roger's tomb, the goblet resting upon it.  He slices his arm open and lets his blood run into the cup.  Delia has never seen so much blood before, and feels relieved when to see him drop the sleeve of his robe over his bloodied limb.  Too late does she realize that Thom, too, is feeling faint.  He stumbles, but Alex braces him.  

"The future," Thom murmurs.  He takes the goblet in his hands and nods to the tomb.  "We must remove the lid."

Alex motions silently into the darkness.  His squire promptly steps into the light, and together they heave the marble cover to reveal Roger's perfectly preserved body.  

"Do you have enough power for this?" Delia asks Thom timidly, worrying that failure will inhibit any later attempts.

He gives her a forbidding look, and Alex smiles frostily.  "Lord Thom has an unending source of power.  He has been tapping into his sister's Gift all week."  

Thom murmurs words that make no sense to Delia.  They are magical, religious perhaps.  Whatever he says, it makes Delia's blood run cold.  Each time a syllable is spoken, one of Roger's fingers—folded so neatly over his chest—twitches.

She closes her eyes, hoping they think that she is fervently praying to the Black God to give back his soul, rather than know that she is too squeamish to watch her lord and master's revival.

Thom's voice rises, and Delia feels the floor tremble.  She bites her lip, trying to keep from crying out.  Near her, Squire Henrim whimpers.  A frigid breeze whips through the room, and Delia wraps her cloak tightly around her frame.  Somehow this chilly October feels drastically colder than the December morning Roger had been entombed.

She opens her eyes to darkness.  _Has the wind blown out the candles, or has the Black God come to take us all?_ Her legs tremble from fear and cold.

Thom continues to rasp words of magic.  A purple glow surrounds Roger's body.  The only thing Delia sees in the eerie light is his perfect, handsome face and his bright blue eyes.  She gasps and stumbles, bumping into Alex's squire.  Roger's eyes seem to follow her movements for a moment, then look to where Alex is standing.  The purple glow spreads, and Thom's chant grows stronger.  Roger's arms move haltingly to his sides, and his mouth slowly stretches into a smile.

Alex steps forward to touch Roger, but Thom forces him back with the sweep of his arm.  Delia shudders involuntarily at the blatant desire on Alex's face.  Delia glances at Thom, wondering if he is now to be cast aside.  Has Alex intended to do so all along—merely abandon him once the deed was done?

The mage shrieks a word, and a surge of bright purple light blinds Delia.  Wind rips through the catacomb, and the earth shakes beneath their feet.  She and Henrim fall to the floor.  Tears stream down her cheeks and she tastes blood on her lips.  

"Make it stop," Alex moans, on his knees and clutching Roger's hand.  The duke is twitching madly, his face contorted in pain.

Thom holds the goblet to Roger's lips, and the duke drinks the blood of his lovers and his rescuer.  One hand reaches up to grab Thom, and the violet light flooding the room suddenly turns brownish-red, the color of dried blood.

Thom collapses just as Roger sits up.  Alex assists Roger, helping him to his feet and supporting his weight.  Delia rushes to Thom, cradling his cold, sweaty head in her lap.

"You found someone," Roger murmurs.  His voice is scratchy and nothing like the voice Delia remembers.

Alex nods.  "Did you think I would not?"

They share a silent exchange—a lover's exchange—with their eyes.  Delia struggles to understand.  But despite her years knowing both of them, their secret conversation is lost on her.

With help from his former squire, Duke Roger kneels to examine Lord Thom.  "Are you the one who temporarily replaced me?" he asks, his voice surprisingly kind.  "Were you the best sorcerer in the world while I was asleep?"

Thom nods sleepily, but manages to pull himself into an upright position.

"You will carry a bit of me inside you as a result of my spell," Roger says softly.  He leans forward and kisses Thom deeply, then whispers: "But I am told that can be a good thing."

Delia feels her heart constrict.  Losing to Alex is painful, but understandable.  She has always thought that Roger was completely divided in his affections.  She has often wondered if she and Alex had learned to love each other, could they have all learned to be happy together?

But Alex and Roger crouch in front of the young mage, one stroking his cheek, the other squeezing his hand.  Gratitude and hope fill their faces, as well as love.  Delia's heart sinks, as she watches boundaries fall and a strange new alliance form, and steps away from the trio with an air of dignity and composure that she does not feel. 


End file.
